


Oceanus

by Jane St Clair (3jane)



Series: Restaurant Dogs [5]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3jane/pseuds/Jane%20St%20Clair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oceanus

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: There's something resembling blood play, here. Nothing more  
> extreme than we already saw in "Raspberry Swirl," but it's there,  
> nonetheless. Also, keep in mind that certain remarks regarding the  
> transfer of bodily fluids are part of the character's stream of  
> consciousness, and shouldn't be taken as medically accurate, except in  
> the context of the story.

The thing about living in LA is that he *knows* he's in California,  
but he doesn't, really.  He's in LA, which is this huge world of  
cement and thick air and chemically-coloured sunshine.  Maybe four  
times in his life, he's left the city, and only once he made it up the  
coast as far north as Santa Barbara.  That was when he first got a  
sense of the world outside the Los Angeles basin.  Huge rocks, huge  
trees, a lot more wind and something sharp and blue which is what the  
ocean smells like when there isn't a shitload of city waste pumped  
into it.

He knows that there are more songs written about driving this highway  
than he could listen to consecutively without being driven to commit  
serious property damage, but he doubts any of them were written about  
driving it at night.  Not in the open air, with low beams and Wesley  
Wyndham-Pryce jammed between the singer's thighs.  So there's at least  
that much of a split between the Twilight Zone of classic rock radio  
and both of them on Wesley's motorcycle.

He's thinking that Wes must have out-butched him at some point,  
because Wes is, in spite of Gunn's bitter protests, driving.

There's a hot place under the palm he laid against Wesley's ribs, and  
he doesn't need vampire senses to know it's bleeding there, underneath  
the skin and possibly even on top of it.  It's been half an hour since  
he could distinguish between just hot, and hot-and-sticky.  An hour  
since he snaked a hand under Wes' jacket and shirt and felt for his  
breath and heartbeat.  Belly and ribs, both still there, and only a  
bit the worse for wear.

Three hours since they stood panting over the corpses of three  
Shibboth demons who'd been hell-bent (and isn't that a phrase just  
made for the occasion) on gutting every homeless kid they could get  
their hands on.  Fourteen human bodies for the city to bury, or  
cremate, or do whatever they do with the bodies of dead people nobody  
cares about.  If Gunn had died just a year ago, his body would have  
gone to the great beyond the same way.  Unless he vamped first.

Gunn crouched on the floor after and watched Angel.  Who was almost  
twitching with the smell in the place.  Human blood all over, and some  
of it was so warm that it was steaming.  Angel'd walked around,  
checking everyone.  Held Cordelia by the chin and wiped the blood off  
her face with a bandana of some kind (black, cotton), then stashed it  
inside his coat somewhere.  Rubbed Gunn's shoulders with one big hand  
when Gunn refused to stand and look him in the eye.  Wrist-clasp with  
Wesley, who'd pulled himself out of the tangle of two-by-fours he'd  
been thrown into when his spell released.  He was bleeding, too, from  
scratches on his arms.  Rusty nails, probably, and it occurred to Gunn  
that if Wesley were in any other profession, he wouldn't *need* to  
have his tetanus booster up to date.

Gunn stayed in his crouch as Angel passed him and watched the way that  
coat moved.  Thinking that Cordelia's blood was in there, somewhere.    
That Angel could take it out, later, and smell it, or suck on it, or  
jerk off into it, or whatever repressed vamps do with bloody rags.    
When they figure out when Angel's birthday is, Gunn's going to get him  
handkerchiefs, the big white ones you can buy in discount linen  
stores, so that he'll be able to track the blood that Angel collects.

He didn't get up until Wesley walked over and offered him one too-  
white hand.  Something dark under his nails that Gunn didn't ask  
about.  He'd walked through Wesley's apartment once and looked at  
everything, and he knows now that he doesn't want to know any more  
about spell components than he currently does.

He flicked his eyes around the warehouse twice to see who was watching  
them.  Not Angel, not Cordelia.  Maybe the bodies.  Wesley had pulled  
him forward and wrapped arms around him.  Just a loose hug -- bodies  
touching from groin to shoulder and their weight bracing, but no tight  
grip, and no huge post-adrenaline passion that might scare the  
children.  Maybe just the edge of a hard-on that he rubbed carefully  
against Wesley's belly.  Until he felt the itch that meant Angel was  
watching them and stepped back.  Walked out of the warehouse about six  
inches from Wes' shoulder but didn't touch him again.  And just stood  
in the night almost-chill, watching Wes and Angel wrap everything up  
in the philosophical parts of their brains so the rest of them could  
go home and sleep soundly.

Gunn wondered if Angel had noticed that the second helmet on the  
motorcycle wasn't pink anymore.  Most of the time if Gunn wanted to go  
somewhere, he took his truck, but once or twice they'd taken Wesley's  
bike, and he'd growled about the pink helmet loud enough that now  
there was a new one.  Matte and unguarded in front, so that he could  
see.  Obviously male.   A little too obviously his.

Which alone was enough to make him flinch a little, and it was worse  
because Wesley turned around then and saw him.  Froze like a troll in  
sunshine (and when did he start making Tolkien references, he hadn't  
read the books in years) and watched Gunn shift his ass against the  
cycle.  Big vulnerable eyes for a second and an answering flinch.    
Then both dark eyebrows pushed together and he walked from Angel back  
to Gunn.  Stepped into his personal space, so close that one thigh was  
between Gunn's legs, and just stood there, staring into his eyes at  
close range.

At some point, Cordelia coughed nervously, then whimpered, and Angel  
said he was going to take her to the hospital to get stitches.

Washed-out blue eyes three inches from his.

Then Wes leaned in and kissed him, very softly with an open mouth.    
Just one tongue-touch to Gunn's upper lip, but it was enough to let  
energy crackle between them.

"Come on," he said, and at some point after that they left LA, and  
since then they've been driving.

On this highway.  Out north of LA, and they're driving fast enough  
that if Gunn was driving instead of Wes, they'd have been pulled over  
by some bitchy traffic cop long ago, and both of them would be face-  
down on the ground while the bastard screamed at them how they'd  
stolen the bike.  Kinky, if you're into that sort of fantasy.  Mostly  
it's boys who look like Wesley who seem to be.  If they looked like  
Gunn, it wouldn't be a fantasy.  All they'd have to do would be stand  
around long enough.

An hour into the trip, he pulled the collar of Wesley's jacket down  
and kissed the naked base of his neck.  Wes shivered and the bike  
swerved, so that for a dozen seconds they were in the wrong lane,  
suddenly so close to the guard rail that Gunn could feel the  
vibrations of the surf a hundred or so feet down the cliff.  They  
turned back into their own lane, eventually, and he got the rare twist  
of Wesley's ass against his crotch, which felt better than it should  
have and nearly pushed him into the realm of indecent assault.

*boy, you been molesting this man?*

*nothing he didn't ask for, officer*

*OK, asshole, you're under arrest     no more feeling up pretty white  
wizards for you*

And isn't that a strange thought.  Wizard.  Because it's becoming  
clearer that this is exactly what Wesley is.  In their last handful of  
fights, he's cast more spells than he's thrown punches, and the spells  
are making Gunn's job a lot easier.  The rest of the time, he walks  
around like Wesley, looking over-neat and English and book-addicted.    
Like he could get a high out of decomposing paper.  Cordelia hasn't,  
as far as Gunn can tell, noticed the mild charge that Wesley now  
radiates almost all the time.  Maybe they just don't touch enough for  
her to think it's anything but socks on a wool rug.  Angel hasn't said  
anything.

Up to his right, the rock face is slanting back, but it's still huge  
enough that it blocks out half the sky.  His world's been reduced to  
rock and dark and Wesley pressed back against him.  Satisfying enough,  
and he's too tired to figure out what corner of wherethefuck they're  
in now.  As long as he stays hanging on, he can just doze until the  
sun comes up.

In fact he doesn't get to, because at some point trees grow up on  
their left and they're not in danger of falling into the water  
anymore.  A semi rolls past them and rocks the bike hard towards the  
rock, so that it takes all of Gunn's and Wesley's balance to keep them  
from sliding out.

Reflective sign announces gas-food-cheap motel in fifteen miles, but  
Wesley pulls in at the next rest stop.  It isn't quite morning yet,  
and the trees around them have this huge, strong smell that he can't  
shake.  Lots of water and salt in with the needles and leaves.  Smells  
good, so that he walks off into them to stretch his legs, and relieves  
himself there in the dark.  Cold air on his cock and chill on his  
balls that wakes him up really well.  The backs of his knees hurt from  
having been bent the same way for so long.

When he comes back, Wesley's standing across the gravel lot from him.    
Behind him, there's some kind of cedar-lined path leading into the  
dark.  Which isn't comforting for a guy who's used to there being big,  
ugly monsters in the dark, and Gunn doesn't care that right now it's  
probably just deer or maybe bears.  In his boot, he has a couple of  
short-shank knives, and there's a stake inside his jacket.  He can't  
walk towards Wes with his hand on one of them, not without being  
really obvious and paranoid, but he would if he could.

Wes leans into him for a second when he finally does come.  From out  
of the dark, suddenly, there's this *boom* that makes all his skin  
crawl two inches higher than it was a second ago, and it's only Wesley  
holding him down that keeps him from jumping like a cat.

"What the *fuck*!"

"Shh.  It's the ocean.  We're only about thirty yards from the beach."

"It's loud."

"The tide's coming in.  And you can hear it better now that the  
motorcycle isn't running."  The hand at the small of his back presses  
in and rubs down an inch inside Gunn's jeans to brush his tailbone.    
Clever fingers probe the shape of the bone and the flesh around it.

Something rings.

Softly, Wesley says, "Bugger."  Steps back and digs in some inner  
pocket of his coat, comes out with his cell phone.

Gunn snatches the plastic wafer out of Wes' loose grip and answers it.    
"Yeah."

"Gunn?"  Cordelia's voice is way too vivid, like she's standing right  
behind him and bitching again about how he's a danger to himself and  
others.

"Yeah."

"Why are you answering Wesley's phone?"

"Because I stole it from him."

"Why would you steal someone's phone?  I mean, all someone has to do  
is call you on it and they can prove it's not yours . . ."

"Cordelia, he's right here."

And he is, but not in front of him anymore.  Wesley circled him at  
some point and came at him again out of the dark, pressing that too-  
thin body against Gunn's back and wrapping an arm around his waist.    
The other's somewhere up by his collar.  Cool touch on the back of his  
neck an instant before Wesley's lips press against it.  Making Gunn  
arch back like some kind of fucking alley cat, slutting himself for a  
touch.

"Gunn?"

Oh *fuck* yes.  Wesley's crotch pushes up against his ass, warm and  
hard.  And he keeps thinking that he's supposed to being doing  
something, but he's happy right now just being the object of Wes'  
slightly perverted attentions, and now that he's getting used to the  
sound of the ocean it's just an interesting extra rhythm he can use to  
push himself up against the man behind him.

"Gunn?!"

Cordelia.  Right.

"*What*?"

"Where are you?"

"Fuck if I know.  Somewhere up the coast."  Holds the phone away from  
his mouth.  "Wes, where are we?"

"About a hundred and eighty miles north of Los Angeles."  That second  
hand working at his shirt, at his belt, working its way into his  
clothes to stroke his navel.

"We're up north."  Something sticky on his belly that he's worried  
might be Wesley's blood.  "Why?"

Awkward pause.  "I don't know.  I got scared.  I don't know where  
Angel is."

Fuck.  "Do you think he's in trouble?"  It's three hours, maybe four,  
back to LA, and he doesn't want to abandon this spot.  Not yet, and  
maybe not for a couple of days.  Even though Wes isn't groping him  
anymore, just draping an arm around Gunn's neck and paying attention.

"I . . ."

"Vision?"

"No.  I just . . . I don't know where he is and my head hurts and I  
didn't know where Wesley was either.  Or you.  And my head hurts.    
There's almost nobody awake in the hospital and it's dark and they  
told me I couldn't sleep.  This nurse with pokey fingers swings by  
every fifteen minutes or so and makes sure.  So all I can do is sit  
here and think, and I hadn't seen you guys since we left the  
warehouse, and . . ."

"You should talk to Wes.  He does reassuring way better than I do."

Hands the phone back over his shoulder and closes his eyes.  Wesley,  
even talking on the phone, is still there, pressed very close against  
him and rubbing gently against his ass.  Warm arm on his shoulder,  
though he misses the one around his waist and his belly's getting cold  
way too fast with his shirt hiked up.  Gunn slides a hand down to  
cover up, but the arm on his shoulders snakes down and catches him,  
pushes him aside and resumes the earlier stroking of his navel and the  
line of fur that runs up and down from it.  Teasing at the waist of  
his jeans and the thin skin underneath it.  Only once reaching farther  
down to rub the heel of that way-too-busy hand against the bulge of  
Gunn's erection.

Fucker.

Fucker who's still talking in that low, soothing English voice to  
Cordelia on the phone and keeps petting Gunn into horny incoherence.    
Whose eyes, from the sound of his voice, must be almost closed behind  
his glasses.  So goddamned calm, just like he isn't the walking bundle  
of nerves that he is.  Like he doesn't vibrate when anyone someone  
looks at him funny.

"Yes.  Yes.  Yes, we're fine.  We're safer up here than we would be in  
Los Angeles."  Angel-ees, the Englishness seeping off of him.

"I know.  I will."  Reassurance and promise to something she's  
demanded of him.  Something that Gunn suspects he doesn't want to know  
about, because if it's about Angel, it's another case of too much bad  
information, and if it's about him . . . he doesn't want to know what  
Cordelia thinks about him.  He still hasn't shaken off the I'm-being-  
watched feeling that Ethan Rayne stuck him with, and sometimes he  
thinks he remembers Cordelia in the room with them, the first day he  
and Wesley slept together.  One of those fucked-up dreams that refuses  
to go away.

"Hush, now.  It'll be all right.  We'll be back today or tomorrow, I  
promise.  All right.  Goodnight, Cordelia."  Snaps the phone shut and  
buries it in his coat again.

Without the necessity of holding the phone steady, Wes is free to push  
himself into a full-body *rub* against Gunn's back.  It's hard enough  
to knock him forward.  Gunn staggers for a second, and by then  
Wesley's moved.  Out in front of him on the tourist-safe past, looking  
again like the too-awkward Englishman who does Angel's research and  
keeps his files in order.  Not looking at all like a wizard, or even  
particularly sexy.  Maybe a little like he's hurt, which is something  
Gunn's going to have to check on.

Except that Wesley's disappeared around a smoothed corner of some  
rock, and Gunn has to run to catch up with him.  Loose bark under his  
feet -- cedar, he thinks.  Sharp wood-smell like the insides of the  
boxes in Wesley's apartment.  Pine and salt over it.  Wesley still out  
in front of him, ducking through the trees and vanishing suddenly.

It's a drop-off, he finds.  Only about six feet down, and the rocks  
are way too smooth, like they're under water sometimes.  The sand down  
below is brilliant-white in the dark, running down to the huge shock  
of sound that's the ocean.  The next boom makes him start, and then  
it's jump or fall, so he jumps, lands with his legs curled under him  
and crouches there, watching.

Wesley's peeled his jacket off, and his shirt.  There's a dark splash  
across his abdomen that's probably blood, but Gunn can't smell it for  
the ocean (and when, exactly, did he get to know what blood smelled  
like?).  

White fingers catch a little of that mess on their tips and mix it  
with the breath-fine sand that's everywhere, even getting into the  
hollows of Gunn's ears.  Rub and rub and then Wesley stands up and  
wades into the water, barefoot but with his pants still on, and rinses  
his hands.  A huge wave hits him at the same moment that he turns to  
look at Gunn, but he just leans back into it and lets the water slide  
down around him.  Very bright in the dark.  Like he's radiating  
something.  Not sunshine, or even something as pure as moonlight.    
More like he's radioactive or wired up to some particularly nasty  
brand of demon that glows in the dark.

Hears Ethan Rayne again, saying *wizard*, and realizes for the first  
time how scary that is.

Wesley comes back out of the water, dripping.  He should look like a  
wet cat but for some reason he doesn't.  More like a snake, or a sea-  
thing getting loose.  The hollows of his skull only gradually start to  
look like eyes as he gets closer.  As he steps up to Gunn, then into  
his personal space again.  Undresses him, efficiently, like some kind  
of manic butler.  Jacket, shirt, belt, boots, pants, jockeys, socks  
all hit the sand.  Leaving him naked and very aware of the air all  
around him while Wes stands back and looks him over.

This close, he can see that Wes is cut, but not badly.  The wound's  
long and shallow, and it isn't really bleeding anymore.  Must've hurt  
like a mother, though, when Wes pulled his shirt off, and the edges  
are newly seeping where the shirt must have stuck to the congealing  
blood.  One more mark on that body in the course of Angel's quest for  
whatever the fuck it is he's after.  Redemption or some shit.  Right.    
You'd think in two hundred and whatever years he'd get over himself.

Cold and sticky on his abs when Wes presses into him again.  Wet pants  
against Gunn's naked skin, some blood.  The cold makes his balls try  
to crawl back up inside his body, and his cock isn't even half sure  
whether it wants to be hard or not.  He's only warm where Wes' mouth  
has latched onto his.

Somewhere back through the trees, a semi screams past them and Gunn  
jumps.

Wesley looks at him hard.  Blue eyes sharp behind the glasses.  "You  
don't like it when I kiss you."

"No."  Meaning, *no, that isn't it* instead of *no I don't like it*,  
which he'd like to explain, but he can just picture himself trying to  
stammer it out, and it sounds entirely too much like Cordelia, so he  
just swallows it.

Blue eyes watching him.  Then one bony hand closes around Gunn's wrist  
and drags him forward until they're halfway between rock and ocean.    
Pulls/pushes him down to sit.  Wes isn't actually strong enough to  
make him do anything -- Gunn has twenty pounds of solid muscle on the  
man -- but he's radiating again, and the sparks running from his hand  
to Gunn's arm whisper that he's angry.  And it's definitely anger  
sparking out of his eyes when he folds himself down and straddles  
Gunn's legs, putting their eyes a handspan apart.

Wet mouth on his, kissing shallow and sharp.

"Feel that."  Sharp, itching power runs across his chest, and he can  
feel/see the blood marks Wesley made over a week ago on his skin.    
"Let me make this clear.

"You are mine"

Kisses him harder, and presses down into Gunn's lap.  But not the way  
he usually does, with his ass pushing in towards the erection pushing  
up towards him.  Just down, holding Gunn down awkwardly enough that he  
can't get away without hurting them both.

There's something other than anger pushing to the surface.  Hot and  
bubbling.  It could be hurt, he thinks.  Because he *knows* it bugs  
Wes whenever he flinches away.  But he just doesn't see the point in  
them getting their asses kicked if they don't have to.  One vamp, two  
vamps, OK, but half the homeboys in South Central just might be a  
match for them, and he'd much rather be a quiet

//closet//

case happily fucking Wes in the abandoned rooms of Angel's hotel than  
a faggot kicked to the curb and crucified there.  And he's *sorry*  
about that, but survival's kind of an issue with him.

He's gonna have to explain that in really careful words, though,  
because what Wes will get out of it otherwise is that Gunn's ashamed  
of him.  Doesn't

//love//

want him.  Because Wes got to go to school in some stick-up-the-ass  
private academy thing back in England, where rich Brits learn to be  
secretly OK with boys fucking each other.

He opens his mouth to say so, figuring he can maybe find the words as  
he goes along, but the instant he does, he has Wesley's tongue down  
his throat.  Wesley's hands are clamped around his skull, holding him  
steady, and Wes is up on his knees again, pressing his whole weight  
down on Gunn's mouth.  So hard that it's not reasonable for those  
glasses to still be resting perfectly on his nose.  Wet, slick, very  
serious.

Gunn slides back onto his elbows and looks up as Wes.  Who's digging  
something out of a pocket of his coat, reaching out long and lean with  
his knees still clamped around Gunn's hips.  Who uses his thumb to  
crack open the bottle of something liquid and slick that he comes up  
with.  The smell of it almost blue, sharp like the surf making huge  
bass rumbles in the background.

Body-warm when it pools on his belly, sliding into his navel and  
making snake-slick trails down to the dip of his pelvis.  Wes' hand in  
it is warm, living, moving like greased fire along him.  Just  
massaging right now, working out some of the tension that Gunn hadn't  
realized he was building, but which is now almost cramp-tight.  "Shit  
that feels good."

"Mmm."  The kiss he gets this time is gentler.

He could stay like this for hours, drifting and almost asleep, while  
Wesley strokes him.  Only half-aroused, the rest of him just happy to  
be touched and to be warm.  The sand under him must have been  
viciously hot during the day; even now it's radiating heat slowly into  
his back.

Wet, messy kisses.  Girl-soft mouth on Wesley.  The rest of him isn't  
even noticeably *off*, it's the mouth that makes people squint at him  
in the street, that makes him just a little implausible on the arm of  
a woman.

Wes' tongue stays gently in his mouth while the first warm, slick  
finger comes to press against Gunn's ass.  For a second he only  
blinks, and for ten after that he wants to shake his head like a dog.    
No.  But it's not invasive yet, just stroking, and he's still getting  
kissed.  And when it is invasive, it's only a little, full and  
startling in a way that makes him gasp and then snake an arm around  
Wes' neck and pull him down closer.

Two fingers is more startling.  Not because he's never done it before,  
but just something about the fingers themselves, their shape and  
leanness and the power that he *knows* is radiating through them, even  
if it's not transferring right now.  Stretched at the same time that  
he's just a bit threatened.  Watch it, mister, or you'll be magicked  
to kingdom come, and won't you have an interesting time explaining  
yourself when you get there?  Growls, pushes his hips down against the  
fingers, manages a breathy obscenity or two when they catch on his  
prostate.

When Wes nudges him onto his side, then onto his stomach, he's willing  
to go with it.  The sand's comfortably warm, and the warmth of Wesley  
curled against his back works against the air.  Sometime while he's  
been locked in the sharp strangeness of his own body, Wes' pants have  
disappeared.  Skin on his skin.  Breath in his ear.  Warm, long kiss  
that wraps its way around his neck.

Nudge of Wes' cock against his opening, slow and careful.  Just an  
inch on the first thrust, more on each one after it.  A long time  
before he's all the way in, and by then Gunn's panting, wanting it  
bad, almost prepared to beg for it.  Almost.  He's prepared to push  
back, to make himself an active participant in this fuck even with his  
body plastered against the sand and no purchase to speak of.

Hard thrust.  "Mine."  Just a hiss, but there's a spark on one  
shoulder where Wes is touching him.  Wesley whispers something in a  
not-living language that somehow translates in Gunn's head.  Telling  
the earth who he belongs to.

"Mine."  Telling the water that keeps making a sound so huge he's  
going to be buried by it soon.

"Mine."  Telling the rocks.  "Mine."  Telling the rock face.  "Mine."    
The air and the sun that's going to be rising soon.

"Mine."  Naming the elements.  Some kind of spell.  Gunn wondered if  
he can feel them reaching back, or whether he's just tired and wired  
and getting fucked too hard to sort out his senses.

"Yours."  Not a whimper, he's quite sure of that.  A hiss, maybe.  A  
growl if he's lucky.  

"Ashamed of me?"

"No!"  Fuck, so good.  Wes's got one knee down and thrusts in at an  
angle, and it's suddenly deeper and lodging in a different place than  
he's felt before.  Enough to make his eyes go wide and the big shock  
of pleasure that means he's going to come run down his chest towards  
his groin.

Wesley kisses his ear, then just traces it with his tongue.  There has  
to be sand getting into Wes' mouth, but he doesn't complain or even  
spit.  Just takes the grains and lays them onto Gunn's skin in the  
next open-mouthed *suck* on his shoulder.  Thrusting quite fast now,  
desperate like a kid on his first time.  Pushing Gunn hard enough  
against the ground that he comes without a reach-around.  Howling and  
thinking in those ice-white seconds that his cock is raw from the  
sand, that if anyone touches it he's going to turn inside out and run  
screaming into some wild place and not come back.

Wes is still on top of him, still thrusting.  Gunn's just panting now,  
waiting for it to be over and whimpering every time the hit on his  
prostate comes too hard.  If he was as pale as Wesley, his whole front  
would be red from friction.  He needs for this to be done, before it  
starts to hurt.  Wes' half-words in his ear sound apologetic, but if  
he can just . get . himself . up it'll be less of an issue.

It takes all his energy to clamp down, but that and a twist of his  
hips push Wes over.  For long seconds he howls at the world that keeps  
pushing in at them, with more breath than someone that slight should  
have at this point.  Relaxes in stages until he's just laid along  
Gunn's back and holding him in a full-body hug that seems like it  
should belong to a kid instead of the man who just topped him.

Quick, sharp pain when Wesley pulls out, but after that Gunn can roll  
over and breathe easier.  Wesley's head presses into his chest and  
doesn't lift again.  Softer, shallower breaths until he's clearly  
asleep.

Even in the dark, something quick and brilliant catches one lens of  
Wesley's glasses in the sand next to them, and Gunn makes a mental  
note (an order? something fierce that he can carve into his memory)  
not to roll over onto the specs, even if it would mean he gets to  
drive home.

There's booming water around them, pushing in towards the rock face.    
Overwhelming until his heartbeat matches it, and then it almost  
vanishes, and he can finally drift a bit.

*

He wakes up at midday and there are huge rock towers in the surf.    
Farther out, there are islands.  Just this one shallow sandy place  
inside a world of rock and lichen and big, soft trees.  The sun on his  
skin's been baking him slowly for several hours, but it's a  
comfortable bake that's going to leave him happier and gentler than he  
was last night.

Wes isn't on him anymore, but the air still feels electric, so he  
can't have gone far.

In fact, he's down at the water, kneeling ankle-deep in it with  
something on his hands, muttering.  Sand and blood, Gunn thinks, like  
last night, but with something else in it.  Gunn's eyes track sideways  
and inform him that Wes has carefully gathered up his semen and left a  
handful of actually kind of interesting rocks in the resulting hollow  
in the sand.  

He's naked when he turns.  The glasses at this point are bizarre,  
something extra on a slick, wild animal, and he wonders just how blind  
Wes must be without them.  He's still got the mix of bodily fluids and  
sand on his hands, and it occurs to Gunn to ask if Wesley has *any*  
idea how un-nineties (zeroes? some modern decade where blood and come  
are dangerous) that is.  How messy.  And he probably would ask if Wes  
didn't rinse it off right then, but he does, and comes back, sits down  
cross-legged in the loose sand.

"Good morning."  Soft, crisp.  Like someone imported him straight out  
of that rainy European island he comes from and dropped him here,  
naked, to deliver Gunn's morning wake-up call.

"Hey."  He reaches out to trace the line of Wes' thigh and breathes  
easier for some reason when neither of them flinches.

"I should probably apologize for last night.  A bit much."

*You don't say.* Not the first time Wesley's cast something while they  
fucked, but definitely the most intense.  Pulling them inside out  
together.  But Gunn isn't as angry as he thought he'd be, and he can't  
think of anything creative to say, so he just watches the skinny,  
curled body sitting next to him and waits.

"I .  . ."  Hesitation.  He's starting to wonder whether the glasses  
aren't more for armour than vision.  Twitch of his lips that Gunn,  
strangely, reads as *fuck I hate being English*.  Interesting enough  
to coax him into a full sitting position, to lean him in towards Wes.

Who's currently got what looks like a broken shell in his hands.    
Knife-sharp.  He keeps testing the edge and flinching away, coming  
back to it and not looking at Gunn.

"What?"

Wesley looks at him then.  Very bright, pale eyes.  And hold out the  
shell and a forearm.

It takes him a long minute to figure out what Wesley means, and a  
couple more to think hard about whether this is something he wants.

*Just think.  Your very own wizard.*  

Gunn nods, and takes the shell, steadies the bony wrist against his  
knee.  The first cut isn't deep enough, but even with Wesley's  
determinedly steady breathing, he knows it's gotta hurt.  So he's more  
careful, makes the next one deep enough to draw real blood, high on  
the arm where there aren't any life-threatening veins.

His own, next.  Third try's the charm, and this is the cut they needed  
to begin with.  Part of his brain is howling about blood sharing, but  
it's a stupid quibble considering the sheer number of times they've  
fucked bareback.

He mixes their blood together on his fingertips, watching Wes for  
small 'yes' and 'no' cues.  Because he isn't any kind of a wizard, but  
even he can feel the mass of the energy he's channelling, well enough  
to feel that it's huge.  Blood like kindergarten fingerpaints.    
Sticky, warm, already congealing.  Wes is holding the sleeve of his  
ruined shirt against the messy cut on his arm and holding his arm up  
to slow the bleeding.  Gunn hasn't looked at his own yet, but he can  
feel the warm drip of something that isn't water running down towards  
his wrist, so he'll have to deal with it sometime soon.

Wesley's hand on his wrist helps him draw.  He doesn't know what the  
symbols are, but he recognizes the answering ache on his own skin, so  
he has a fair idea what they mean. *Mine.*

He whispers that.  "Mine."

"Absolutely."

Wesley.  Huge eyes and too-pale skin and all the dark hair on him  
stark in the brilliance of morning.  The blood marking out his skin  
looks not quite real, but it doesn't drip after it touches him.  Every  
so often one of them flinches when the salt in the air gets into one  
of their cuts.  

When Wes releases his wrist, Gunn pushes his red, sticky fingers into  
the white of the sand and leans in to kiss him.  Wet and messy, salty  
and sour and electric.  Spark of unnatural energy when their chests  
touch.

Bright and huge, this morning.


End file.
